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Ben had always heard the monsters under the house, whispering dark thoughts throughout his family’s home. Sure, he had told his parents countless times throughout the years about them, but to no avail.

He was just a kid, with a crazy imagination.

“Perhaps he’ll be a writer, like his old man.” His father had beamed, softly hitting Ben in the chin as a sign of affection for his recent outburst about the whispers of death coming from the walls.

“Perhaps he needs counseling.” His mother rolled her eyes with her usual disdain for the present conversation. Ben knew the monsters were there because what ten years old would want to imagine such things. Every night he laid with wide open eyes, dark circles permanently fixated under his skin from the ritual of never wanting sleep to come.

He heard the voices every single day.

That’s why when he dragged his feet off the bus, walked across the wooded lawn and entered the one place he truly felt fear deep down to his core, he stopped in terror from the absence of the voices.

They were gone.

And the threat of the silence was far more threatening than any promise they had passed along throughout the years. He knew things were going to get worse.